


Yellow

by yellingbaek



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Artist Byun Baekhyun, Byun Baekhyun-centric, Comfort/Angst, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Graphic Depictions of Illness, Hanahaki AU, Hanahaki Disease, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Major Illness, Sick Character, Sickfic, Song Lyrics, Songfic, Synesthesia, Terminal Illnesses, hanahaki
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-05
Updated: 2018-01-15
Packaged: 2019-02-28 13:30:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 14,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13272435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yellingbaek/pseuds/yellingbaek
Summary: Baekhyun wakes up coughing flowers and blood, the mark of a dead man.  The only one who can help him?  Park Chanyeol, one of the most prolific surgeons in Seoul, most renowned for hishanahakiprocedures.The star-crossed story of a starving artist and a heartless doctor.  One night, one song, one tragic love.  And it was all yellow.





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Harmonijay (PBCBYH6104)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PBCBYH6104/gifts).



> Vietnamese translation by the wonderful DandelionB0506 - [Sắc Vàng] : https://dandelionb0506.wordpress.com/category/sac-vang/

**Part 1 ******

****

********

_Look at the stars_

__

__

_Look how they shine for you_

* * *

Sunlight streams in through half-opened yellow linen curtains, casting warm slants against Baekhyun’s cheek. The first thing he’s aware of when waking up is not the light, though, nor is it his pounding hangover. The first thing he notices is his inability to breathe. There’s something in his throat- no, his chest. His eyes spring open as he coughs. Something soft and velvety ejects from his lips, falling onto his pillow. It takes a few seconds to register.

Flower petals?

_No._ It can’t be. Not him. Not flowers.

But it is, Baekhyun realizes as he scoops up the yellow daffodil petals, soft as deer hide. His stomach plummets. He peels his covers off, shivering; despite the sunlight, it’s still freezing in his little loft; his heater broke a week ago and he hasn’t had the time or money to fix it. Fist clutching the petals, he blearily stuffs them into the garbage bin beneath his sink, which is situated a few feet away from his bed and currently overflowing with paintbrushes.

A bitter burn has started in the back of his throat, and Baekhyun coughs again to dislodge it. To his alarm, another handful of petals falls from his lips.

Breathing heavily, he goes back to his bed and sits down hard on the corner of it. His mind races. Everyone knows if you cough up flowers, you’re doomed. What was the disease called again? Baekhyun presses the heels of his hands into his eye sockets until he sees stars. 

_Hanahaki_. 

The disease that arises when you fall in unrequited love. Cannot be detected until contracted and symptoms actively show, can only be cured if love is requited or if surgery- the side effects of which include the loss of the ability to love at all and the loss of all memory of the loved one- is undergone. If gone untreated, is terminal. Rare: only one in a million has the active gene for it.

As a budding artist, Byun Baekhyun has been called ‘one in a million’ a couple of times, but he’d never wanted it to apply to him like this. 

But who? Who had he fallen in love with? The hangover now beginning to pound at his temples, Baekhyun turns his gaze to the half-painted canvas sitting on his centermost easel in the middle of his room. His breathing stops. Last night comes rushing back.

* * *

_Sixteen Hours Ago_

“Hey, stranger.” Baekhyun, clutching a champagne flute that’s been refilled more times than he can count, waltzes up to the tall man dressed in a dark grey peacoat.

“Mr. Byun,” the stranger replies in a low voice.

“Mm, cobalt,” Baekhyun murmurs appreciatively.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Your voice. It’s cobalt blue.” Baekhyun gestures with his champagne flute as he explains, coming dangerously close to spilling its contents. “I hear things in colour. Smell, feel, taste them, too. Synesthesia.” 

The stranger cocks an eyebrow, then turns away from Baekhyun to look at the painting on the wall, an enormous work of vibrant oil and canvas that stretches several feet high and long. It’s done in abstract style, but the outline of a stormy ocean and a ship upon it can still clearly be made out. The wet black waves crest alive, and the ship, minute in comparison, is tossed violently by them. The stranger’s eyes gleam. “Is that your secret then?”

“Cat’s out of the bag.” Baekhyun grins.

“So the ocean’s not blue to you.” Not a question, but an open-ended statement. The stranger’s voice is cool.

“To my eyes, yes. To everything else, to my brain, to my gut, no. Black’s more the colour. You never know what the ocean’s hiding. Shipwrecks, sharks, giant squids, souls of drowned sailors-”

“The Little Mermaid.” 

Baekhyun meets the stranger’s eyes, and is pleasantly surprised to see a crooked smile hanging on the other man’s face. He laughs like bells, agreeing: “The Little Mermaid.”

“Chanyeol.” The stranger extends his hand. It’s warm and his shake is firm and Baekhyun notices that his cologne is the colour of champagne.

“Pleased to meet you,” Baekhyun says.

“The pleasure’s all mine.” Chanyeol’s eyes linger for just a tad too long on Baekhyun’s after their handshake breaks. Baekhyun’s fingers twitch of their own accord, itching to grab a pad of paper to sketch that dark gaze. “Congratulations on this exhibition. Your art is magnificent.”

“Well, now you know my secret.” Baekhyun winks.

Just then, a bright voice comes pealing from across the room. “Why, is that Park Chanyeol I see?” Jongdae, Baekhyun’s old art college friend, weaves his way through the crowd.

“You know each other?” Baekhyun asks once Jongdae’s arrived and wrapped an arm around Chanyeol.

“Do we ever! Doctor Park here operated on my husband when he broke his leg last spring. You remember that, don’t you, Baekhyun? You were the one who called the ambulance.”

“I do.” Jongdae’s husband, Minseok, paints ceiling murals for a living, and it had just so happened that Baekhyun had been working on a _wall_ mural at the same church at the same time. Jongdae’s husband was fighter, though- he was back at work a day after his surgery, painting the ceiling in a leg cast. Now, whenever Baekhyun passes that church, he goes inside to admire the ceiling.

“You’re a surgeon?” Baekhyun turns his attention back to Chanyeol.

“I am.”

“The best in Seoul!” Jongdae beams. “If you ever need medical attention, Baekhyun, Doctor Park is your man.”

_Doctor Park is your man_. Baekhyun giggles in spite of himself. 

After a few more pleasantries are exchanged, Jongdae leaves to go mingle with other people, the social butterfly that he is. Baekhyun should be doing the same, it’s _his_ art exhibition, after all, and he invited all these people here, but the last thing he wants to do is leave Chanyeol’s side. And Chanyeol doesn’t seem to mind either, accepting when Baekhyun offers to take him on a tour of the exhibition.

“I’ve been looking for a muse,” Baekhyun explains as they saunter past paintings of boats and restaurants. “These pieces are all inspired by my parents. My dad was a captain and my mom was a waitress, before I retired them.”

“Starving artist no more,” Chanyeol remarks drily. 

Laughing, Baekhyun replies, “Tell that to my landlord. Can’t remember the last time I paid rent on time.”

“How filial of you, to retire your your parents, when you live like that.” Chanyeol tilts his head to look down at Baekhyun. His eyes are a delicious, warm brown, like a cup of hot cocoa. Baekhyun finds himself longing for a paintbrush. He’s found that life’s greatest mysteries are often best unravelled between paint and canvas. And Park Chanyeol is an enigma Baekhyun would adore to solve.

“Come with me,” Baekhyun says then, impulsively, on a whim, riding a lightning bolt of sudden inspiration and what is more likely than not a champagne high. He reaches out and takes Chanyeol’s hand. The way their fingers lock together perfectly sends symphonies of swirling colour bursting in his mind like paint blooming in a cup of water. Chanyeol is wearing a ring on his pointer finger, Baekhyun notes, a thin band of silver with tiny etched designs.

Chanyeol, bless his soul, doesn’t seem taken aback in the least. He drops his gaze to their hands, then looks back at Baekhyun. Trust, curiosity, and something unreadable glimmers in his expression. “Where to?”

* * *

Back in the present, Baekhyun groans and doubles over. Another coughing fit takes hold of him, wracking him to and fro like a tempest-battered ship. Yellow petals flutter to the worn wooden floorboards, studded with droplets of red. Blood.

Bitter perfume and the metallic tang of blood polluting his mouth, Baekhyun stumbles up and lumbers over to his bedside drawer. 

_Park Chanyeol._

It was him. The surgeon guy with the eyes and the peacoat and the champagne cologne. Knitting his brow, Baekhyun recalls the last fuzzy bits and pieces from last night.


	2. Part 2

****

**Part 2**

_And everything you do_

__

__

_Yeah, they were all yellow_

* * *

_Fifteen Hours Ago_

The clock strikes twelve, and the new day is rung in with _Yellow_ by Coldplay blasting on the jukebox of the retro diner.

They’re the only two in the whole place. Baekhyun and Chanyeol wait for their milkshakes and fries, sitting across from one another at a wall-side booth with red and white leather seats and a glossy white table top adorned with baby blue placemats and half-empty ketchup and mustard bottles. 

“Nice place,” Chanyeol remarks, “I feel like my grandfather.”

_Good Old Days Diner_ is the name. Baekhyun frequents the place; it’s close to his loft and makes a mean strawberry milkshake. Plus, it doesn’t hurt that the place really lives up to its name. The floor is black and white checkered linoleum; a red pool table painted with Elvis’s face sits in the corner; giant vintage stickers of old American symbols like Coca-Cola and Rosie the Riveter plaster the walls. The diner’s decked out in a mixture of retro-style fixtures: collector’s edition vinyls, a semi-creepy semi-cute Betty Boop statue, a miniature 50’s gas pump, flashing neon signs in pink and blue, and of course, the jukebox.

Baekhyun props his elbow on the table and set his chin in his hand, leaning towards Chanyeol. A neon sign reading ‘Home Sweet Home’ glows on the wall right next to their booth. The glow it casts on Chanyeol’s face makes him look almost surreal. Like a mirage. Like Baekhyun could suddenly wake up to discover this all a dream.

Really, he can barely fathom that this situation is actually happening. His art exhibition is going on in a warehouse blocks and blocks away while he is with a (cute! Really cute!) boy at his favourite retro diner. It’s midnight. The smell of fried food and ice cream cloys his senses. And his favourite song is playing on the jukebox.

_Look at the stars_

_Look how they shine for you_

_And everything you do_

_Yeah they were all yellow_

He hums along. Then realizes that he’s been staring at Chanyeol. That Chanyeol’s been staring back. That they’ve both been wordless for too long. He clears his throat and stares at the Home Sweet Home sign instead, not caring that the neon burns his retinas.

“I love this song,” Chanyeol says then. His voice is loud in the empty diner despite the music.

“Me, too,” Baekhyun replies just as loudly, a smile like honey spreading across his face. 

Turns out, Chanyeol knows all the words. He starts singing, quietly at first, but growing gradually louder as Baekhyun joins in with a grin. His voice is low, raspy, sweet. Cobalt blue. Baekhyun wants to close his eyes and savour it.

“Look at the stars,” he sings to Chanyeol when the last verse comes in. He boldly reaches out to grab Chanyeol’s arm where it’s lying across the table, and points behind Chanyeol, at the glass door beyond that reveals the city and its lights outside. Streetlights are no stars, but they’ll do. 

Chanyeol takes a glance backwards, and laughs. “Look how they shine for you,” he sings back, tilting his head, half-closing his eyes, “And all the things that you do.” 

They smile at each other- an inside joke smile, a shared smile full of tentative wonder. When the last chords of the song die away, Baekhyun’s heart is still booming with its rhythm.

A waitress comes with their food before long. A strawberry milkshake for Baekhyun, chocolate for Chanyeol, and fries to share. Celebration food, for nothing and many things all at once.

Chanyeol proposes a toast. Solemn-faced, he raises his black and white checkered milkshake cup. “To Mr. Byun and his exhibition. You’ve worked hard.”

Dipping his head graciously, Baekhyun adds, “To Doctor Park and his ability to mend broken legs so brilliantly that his patients are able to continue painting ceilings immediately after their operations. You’ve worked hard.”

At this, Chanyeol bursts out laughing. It’s a wondrous noise. Yellow. “Did Minseok really?”

“You bet.” Baekhyun takes a slurp of strawberry milkshake. “You’ve got the surgeon’s equivalent of a green thumb, apparently. I’m surprised flowers didn’t come springing out of his cast.”

The corner of Chanyeol’s mouth quirks strangely; he looks away. “Mm. Yeah, no flowers.”


	3. Part 3

****

**Part 3**

_I came along_

__

__

_I wrote a song for you_

* * *

The doctor’s office smells like aloe hand sanitizer. Baekhyun makes a mental note to chuck out the little bottle he has at home when he gets back. The plastic bag he’s hung around his neck to catch the petals feels heavy, though only a few stray blossoms lie at the bottom.

“And then what, Mr. Byun? What happened after the diner?” The doctor, a fat old man with a greasy face and smudged spectacles, peers at Baekhyun with a mixture of pity and condescension.

Baekhyun bites his lip. What happened after the diner? What a question. What a damn question. “We- Doctor Park and I- went to my loft, and, uh-”

“And then what?” The doctor is definitely anticipating this answer, sitting at the edge of his seat. He looks like the cat right before it pounces on the canary. 

For a moment, Baekhyun is tempted to lie, just to deprive the wretched man of his satisfaction. But no. He needs this diagnosis. 

“And then we had sex.”

There it is. The truth. The whole innocent truth of it: a one-night stand. That was all it was. Sex with Chanyeol, with the good doctor, with the mysterious, handsome stranger. 

It was nothing. 

It was _supposed_ to be nothing.

After making a few (completely unnecessary, in Baekhyun’s opinion- any idiot off the street could tell what this is) notes on his clipboard, the doctor frowns. 

“I’m afraid, Mr. Byun, you have _hanahaki_.” 

He then goes on to regal Baekhyun with all the gory details of the disease, which Baekhyun is already more than familiar with. Loss of ability to breathe. Coughing up flowers, blood, maybe a chunk or two of his own lungs. Death.

“-Unless Park Chanyeol loves you back.”

_Love_. 

Suddenly, Baekhyun feels sick to his stomach, and not just because he’s ill. He can’t believe he’s in love with the guy. It's crazy. One night. One! That’s all it took. His lungs may be the organs killing him, but his stupid heart's really what's damned him. 

Maybe _hanahaki_ is really just an example of Darwinism- only the weak and foolish would fall in love with someone over the course of one night. Only Baekhyun would. _God._

“So what you’re saying here, doc, is that I can either sacrifice my ability to feel the fundamental human emotion of love, or persuade a stranger to fall in love with me. Great. Really great.”

The doctor misses the stinging sarcasm. “When would you like your operation to be scheduled for?”

“My operation?” Baekhyun stares incredulously at the man sitting across from him in the office. Stares at his flabby double chin, his squinty judgemental eyes, his white coat, his framed picture of his family that sits in front of him on his desk. This man has never had to choose between his life and his ability to love. He gets both. He get both- why doesn’t Baekhyun? Why?

Flinging back his chair, Baekhyun stands abruptly. “There will be no operation.”

“Mr. Byun, I urge you to consider the consequences before deciding. Sleep on it, perhaps. Discuss it with your fam-”

“No.” He begins back away, hand scrabbling at the doorknob behind him. “No, no, no. I’m a painter. I need to be able to feel this. If I can’t love, I might as well go live on the streets now. And I can’t do that, I can’t. I've sacrificed everything- my hometown, my youth, a stable future with a stable job- to chase this dream. I have to be able to paint. I have to- to support my parents. I have to- shit, I have to pay my fucking rent. I can’t go through with the operation. I can’t. I need- I need-” 

“I understand, Mr. Byun, but-”

“No, you don’t.” Baekhyun swings the door open without taking his eyes off of the doctor. He points a shaky finger, takes an even shakier breath. “Don’t say you understand. You don’t.”

With that, he runs out of the office, out of the clinic, and onto the streets of Seoul. It immediately sweeps him up. The autumn sun is radiating grey, and the voices of the hundreds of pedestrians bustling by are a tumultuous mixture of rainbow hues. His head positively throbs. A wave of nausea seizes him and he stumbles to lean against a building, where he retches yellow petals into his plastic bag.

He has to find Chanyeol. Surgery is not an option; a painter without the ability to love is worse than a painter without the ability to see. He has to find Chanyeol, and make him requit his love. And then everything will be fine. 

It has to be. 

How cruel of fate. When he thinks back to that night with Chanyeol, it's beautiful. The easy, lighthearted laughter in the diner; the giddy, lust-drunk traipse through the dark streets to Baekhyun's loft; the warmth and pleasure of making love. He hasn't felt so safe, so happy with anyone in... well, ever. It had been so _good_. 

How cruel that it couldn't stay that way. Those memories are ruined forever now. 

Chanyeol had left the next morning without leaving a number, but Baekhyun knows he would've wanted to find him. To maybe start something that was more than a one night stand. _Well, it was more than a one night stand, alright_ , he thinks bitterly. 

When he wipes his mouth, his hand comes away red.


	4. Part 4

****

**Part 4**

_And all the things you do_

__

__

_And it was called "Yellow"_

* * *

__

For the second time that day, Baekhyun finds himself at a medical centre. This time, a hospital. Jongdae had been crushed upon hearing about Baekhyun’s illness, and given him Chanyeol’s workplace address without hesitation. Now it is just a waiting game. Apparently, Doctor Park is one of the most sought-after surgeons in South Korea. 

His specialty?

No, not fixing broken legs, as Baekhyun had originally thought.

 _Hanahaki_ removal procedures.

Yes, the guy who has given Baekhyun the damn disease is probably the singular most qualified person in the country to help him cure it. In more ways than one.

He sits in the waiting room for hours, occasionally visiting the bathroom to change his plastic bag full of daffodil petals. He hates how they’re yellow. 

“Doctor Park will see you now,” a receptionist tells him when he returns from the bathroom with a fresh bag for the umpteenth time. 

Chanyeol’s office has a glass wall overlooking Seoul. The sky outside is, visually, deep blue and orange, the colour of dusk. To Baekhyun, it’s a roiling dark violet; the light of day is battling the darkness of night for dominance, and it's losing.

Chanyeol himself is seated at a grand mahogany desk, wearing scrubs, chugging water, when Baekhyun walks in. His eyes widen. Baekhyun forgets how to breathe for a second (or is it just the flowers acting up again). Miraculously, he manages to get out a greeting. “Hello, you.”

“Mr. Byun?”

 _I’m in love with you, at least call me by my first name_. “Baekhyun, please.”

Chanyeol gestures for him to have a seat across the desk. “What brings you here?” His eyes slide down Baekhyun’s face to the plastic bag, and his face darkens in recognition.

“I’m sure you’re familiar with this sight.” Baekhyun tugs at the bag. He feels himself turning red, which makes him furious at himself because, why? What reason does he have to feel ashamed? He’s ill; he needs treatment. What is there to be embarrassed about?

“I’m so sorry,” Chanyeol says.

“Don’t be,” Baekhyun says reflexively, then catches himself and laughs. “Actually, maybe you should be.”

Chanyeol blinks, tilting his head. “I- beg your pardon?”

“Uh. Okay, there’s no easy way to- Ah, I’m going to go ahead and be direct. Brace yourself.” Baekhyun takes a gulp of air, feeling lightheaded. He can't believe this is really happening. Then, so quickly the syllables slur into one another:

“I’m in love with you.”

Strangely, after the words leave his mouth, he suddenly wants to cry. Verbalizing it makes it real. He’s in love with Park Chanyeol. The taste of it is red, red, bright, sappy, love-heart red, rose red, blood red. 

God, he’s so stupid.

“Oh,” Chanyeol says.

“A ‘love you too’ is usually extended at this point,” Baekhyun snipes. Then laughs at his own lameness. Then shuts up because if he talks anymore, he might actually cry. At least then he’ll actually have something to be embarrassed about.

 

After a span of silence, Chanyeol says, “You’ve been to a doctor already?”

Baekhyun nods. “And I told him I’m not having surgery.”

Chanyeol looks like he’s about to ask why, but upon seeing the expression on Baekhyun’s face, decides against it. “Mr. Byun. Baekhyun. You’ll die.”

Hearing his name on Chanyeol’s lips pulls at Baekhyun’s heartstrings like wind tearing at blades of grass. He closes his eyes. Cobalt and yellow bleed together. Emerald green, the colour of spring. Ironic, seeing as Baekhyun seems to have now been unwillingly plunged into the autumn of his life. “I know,” he says quietly. _Or, you could fall in love with me_.

For a few moments, there is only the clinical white rustling of paper, then Chanyeol says, “I can’t allow that to happen.”

Baekhyun’s eyes spring open.

“I have a mandate as a doctor to keep you alive.” Chanyeol slides a stack of paperwork and a pen to Baekhyun. It reminds Baekhyun of last night, when he’d done the same motion except with a platter of fries. “I’m taking you as my patient,” Chanyeol explains.

“You sure?” Baekhyun picks up the pen but doesn’t put it to paper, spinning it between his fingers instead. It’s not the cheap plastic kind, but good, heavy wood, with gold fittings. Chanyeol has good taste. 

“Mandate,” Chanyeol repeats, “Besides, there’s fact that I’m the one who technically caused the emergence of the disease. I feel responsible.”

“And what can you do to keep me alive, hm?” The pen stops spinning; Baekhyun grips it with white knuckles. “Fall in love with me?”

Chanyeol replies immediately. “I can’t.”

Baekhyun feels his face turning hot again. What kind of answer was that? _I can’t?_ Jeez, was he really that repulsive to Chanyeol? “Didn’t feel like that last night,” he mumbles.

“You misunderstand me.” 

Baekhyun raises his eyebrows.

“Baekhyun, I’m a _hanahaki_ survivor. I underwent surgery five years ago.” Chanyeol’s voice is gentle, slow.

“Oh.” Now it’s Baekhyun’s turn to be at a loss for words. “I’m… sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Chanyeol replies with a wry side smile.

A pregnant pause fills the room. Baekhyun stares at the stack of paperwork, not making a move to sign anything; Chanyeol watches him intently, waiting, tight-lipped. You could hear a pin drop. “W-what’s it like?” Baekhyun finally breaks the silence, tongue stumbling over the words, “To not be able to love?”

Chanyeol purses his lips.

“Wait, sorry." Baekhyun blushes and ducks his head. "Forget I asked. Don’t answer if you don’t want to. I get if it’s a sore subject. Sorry. Nevermind. I'll just go-” Baekhyun stands up. His face is really on fire now.

“No, no, it’s alright. It’s just that it’s been a long time since anyone asked.” Chanyeol rubs a hand over his face. “And it’s been a long day.”

Baekhyun peers at him, sensing for the the first time the weariness that emanates from the ready smile and strong shoulders. He asks quietly, “You work the night shift too?”

Chanyeol nods.

“You should get some rest.” Baekhyun says, then laughs at himself again. Chanyeol gives him a questioning look. He shakes his head. “Look at me, telling my doctor to take care of himself. I’m the one who’s dying.”

“ _Your_ doctor?”

“Shit.”

“Come on. Sign it.” Smiling now that he can taste victory, Chanyeol pushes the paper closer, then takes Baekhyun’s pen-holding hand by the wrist and guides it to the spot where his signature has to go. Baekhyun freezes at his touch. His mind becomes an explosion of bright colour. Somehow, he manages to scrape together enough leftover brain cells to scratch his big, loopy signature onto the paperwork. 

And then it’s official.

“Mr. Byun. Baekhyun.” The way that Chanyeol proffers his hand reminds Baekhyun of the serious, solemn way he’d proposed the toast last night. As if they are meeting for the first time. As if they are nothing more than doctor and patient. 

“Doctor Park,” he says carefully, hoping Chanyeol doesn’t check his pulse while they’re shaking hands. Chanyeol’s hand is warm, comforting, his shake firm and steady.

“I’ll do my best.” Chanyeol bows.

Baekhyun dips his head back. The formality all seems a little silly. _Quit the act. I saw you naked last night._ Before he leaves, he says to Chanyeol, “I just have one condition.”

“Fire away.”

“Don’t do anything I don’t want you to. Honour my wishes.” It takes will of steel for Baekhyun to meet Chanyeol’s eyes, and to hold it, but he needs this message to sink in. “If I choose to die, let me. Screw your mandate. Let me live and die on my own terms.”

Chanyeol doesn’t like this. He clenches his jaw, unclenches, clenches, then sighs. “Very well. Your terms, Baekhyun.”

“I’ll see you, Doctor Park.” Then, his eyes catch on something behind Chanyeol, past the floor-to-ceiling windows. Despite it all, he cracks a smile. Jerks his chin up to gesture at the sky outside. 

“Look at the stars.”

* * *

The next time Baekhyun sees Chanyeol, it’s at another art exhibition, weeks later. This one’s drawn a larger crowd; apparently Baekhyun’s name’s spread since the last one. Jongdae has a great time telling everyone the story of the ‘Vanished Artist’ who ditched his own exhibition last time and left everyone else behind to wonder at his art without the benefit of the artist to interpret it for them. People laugh amongst themselves at the silly little eccentric artist with his strange ways; it feels like a retelling of some sort of urban myth. The laughter dies down, though, and there are only smatterings of sympathetic murmurs when Baekhyun appears, dressed to the nines but with a plastic bag around his neck. Baekhyun waves off their concern with a charming smile and flutes of champagne. It’s fine, he’s fine, don’t worry about it, have some champagne, it’s marvelous.

Then, _he_ arrives. 

The grey peacoat again. A black turtleneck underneath. Baekhyun wastes no time in shedding the obligatory small talk it takes to network in the Seoul art scene, and comes to stand next to Chanyeol.

“You always pick the largest piece to look at first,” he comments by way of greeting.

“It’s beautiful,” Chanyeol replies, never taking his eyes off the painting.

A city skyline spills across the bottoms edge of the painting, flashing with light and life, but what really takes centre stage is the sky. Night consumes square foot after square foot. But this night is not what you’d typically see over light-polluted Seoul. No, it’s the universe in art form. Stars, planets, moons. The endlessness. Baekhyun cried more than a few times while painting it. At the enormity of it. The smallness he felt, miserably coughing up yellow petals as the clock ticked closer to his death and the heavens carelessly spun on and on forever. The eternity. The enormity. He'd imagined he was painting little bits of himself with each glowing white star, but then felt stupid and pathetic for thinking it. For thinking he'd be anything more than a blip, a short-lived, blinking comet if he was lucky. So horribly small amidst it all. 

“You are something, Baekhyun,” Chanyeol suddenly mutters. He brushes at his eyes, and Baekhyun looks over and realizes that he’s _crying_. “You really are something.”

Baekhyun says nothing, lets him feel it for a minute, then laughs. “You flatter me.”

“It’s well-deserved praise. I mean it.”

“Thank you.”

Then, some middle-aged socialite on the arm of a prolific art critic arrives, and Baekhyun is torn away. He can feel Chanyeol's eyes following him when he leaves. As he is swept back into the crowd of people, he forces himself to smile, to sparkle. He hates networking, truthfully. Thinks it’s a waste of time. But it’s a necessary waste of time. You make yourself known or you starve. So he downs a few flutes of bubbly to make himself more amiable and tries to forget that Chanyeol is in the building for the few hours that the exhibition lasts.

It’s an impossible feat to forget, though, when Chanyeol is the last one left in the gallery after everyone else has left. 

Baekhyun bids goodnight to the last of his guests at around one AM. His hands are red from so many handshakes, and his voice raw from all the talking and simpering. It’s been worthwhile, though. Twelve of his paintings were sold today. He’ll be sending another cheque to his parents soon.

He goes to the garbage can and stands over it as he unties the plastic bag around his neck, now full of bloodied petals. It’s getting worse. Each cough feels like getting stabbed in the chest with a serrated knife. His mouth is constantly saturated with the revolting taste of flowers and blood. It’s hard to eat now, because it hurts to swallow and because he can hardly get through a meal without coughing the food back up; he’s watching himself waste away, face growing pallid and skeletal, body losing its soft roundness and becoming brittle and bony.

It’s unfair, really. He takes another bag out of his pocket and puts it around his neck. He’s twenty-six, in the prime of his life. He’s never done anything wrong. He’s worked so hard for everything that he has- this exhibition, the money for his parents, even his pathetic loft. And it all means nothing.

“Can I buy this one?”

Baekhyun jumps as Chanyeol’s voice rings through the gallery. He turns around to see the surgeon standing, once again, before the painting of the Seoul skyline and the stars above it. It’s one of the few pieces that haven’t been laid claim to yet.

“Um, yeah. Sure thing.” Now that his guests are gone, Baekhyun is much more subdued and quiet. He walks over to Chanyeol and stands before him.

“It’ll look great in my office, on the empty wall.”

“When night falls, you’ll have the same view on two walls,” Baekhyun warns half-jokingly.

“No." Chanyeol shakes his head. "This is better than the real thing. How much?”

After a pause, Baekhyun says, “Nothing for you.”

“No, Baekhyun.” Chanyeol frowns. “I couldn’t.”

“Consider it my payment for the medical services.” Baekhyun smiles, tries to sound lighthearted. 

Chanyeol begins fishing in his pockets for his chequebook. “Don’t be silly.”

“I’m not.” Baekhyun reaches out and grabs Chanyeol’s hands, holding them still. The lack of distance between them makes his heart pound, but his voice is firm. “I want you to have it.”

Chanyeol stares at him for a small eternity, wordlessly. Then, he shakes his head and rolls his eyes. “It’s not like I can’t afford it.”

“That’s not what I’m saying.” Baekhyun takes a couple breaths. “I just- consider it a thanks in advance.”

“For what?”

“Saving my life. Fulfilling your doctor’s mandate. Trying to, at least. My life’s got to be worth more than this painting, right? So you’ll take it as thanks. You give me my life, I give you this painting, which is the closest thing in value to my life that I can offer to you. Unless you’re trying to say that my life _isn’t_ worth as much as the painting?” Raising a challenging eyebrow, Baekhyun smiles at the other man. 

“God, you’re stubborn.”

“I’ve been told it’s one of my better traits.”

“Thank you.” Shaking his head, Chanyeol steps back, preparing to leave.

“Wait,” says Baekhyun, not wanting him to. “Let’s go grab some drinks or something.”

Chanyeol raises his eyebrows. 

“At my place. I’ve got something better than this champagne. And, and-” _And what?_ Baekhyun thinks fast, “-And I need you to do something for me.”

“The last time we went to your place, it didn’t end very well for you.”

“We’re not fucking this time,” Baekhyun laughs, eyes widening. It’s the first time they’ve come close to talking about what happened, and it’s a relief; he’d thought that Chanyeol had tried to forget altogether that anything had happened between them.

“Alright,” Chanyeol says cautiously, “I needed to tell you about something anyways.“

“Oh, really? What?”

“I’m looking for a cure for _hanahaki_.”

* * *

He’s doing research at the hospital in his spare time, and he thinks he’s about halfway to a cure that doesn’t involve surgery or requited love. It’ll be in pill form. Easy, painless, effective.

“It’ll be expensive, though,” he sighs, “Since only one person in a million has _hanahaki_ , we won’t be able mass-produce it.”

They’re at Baekhyun’s loft. Chanyeol is lying on his side on the bed, shirtless. His peacoat and turtleneck draped over the back of the one chair in the place, which Baekhyun is sitting on. A canvas as high and wide as his armspan is propped on the easel in front of Baekhyun, as well as a cup of paint-muddled water. His palette is in one hand, along with about ten brushes; a single brush is held in his right hand, making broad sweeps across the canvas.

_”Remember when I said I was looking for a muse?” he asked Chanyeol when they arrived in his room. His lights refused to turn on, so he had to light candles, laughing embarrassedly about the landlord turning off the electricity. It was all for the better, though: the candles lent just the right amount of dim, moody lighting. Chanyeol was exquisite rendered in flame and shadow._

“Looks like I won’t be able to get it, then,” Baekhyun says with a straight face. He means to sound dry, but it just ends up bitter.

“I’ll cover you,” Chanyeol says without hesitation.

Pressing his lips together, Baekhyun focusses on painting the rosy blush onto canvas-Chanyeol’s cheeks. They’ve both had a lot to drink by now, and are glowing like stars.

“Really, Baekhyun, I will,” Chanyeol says softly, “Once I get the formula right, you’ll be the first to get it. It’ll cost you nothing. Promise.”

Baekhyun’s brush stops moving. He looks past the easel at Chanyeol. Glides his gaze over the tousled brown hair, the soft planes of the poetically symmetrical face, the big, dark almond eyes that are fixed right back on him. 

“You know what else would cost nothing? If you’d fall in love with me.” 

He regrets the words as soon as they come out.

“Baekhyun…” Chanyeol’s pity is the purple of the morning glories that grew in the pot on Baekhyun’s bedside before they withered and died from neglect; his regret is a melancholy steel blue. “You know I can’t.”

“Yeah, I know, I know.” Baekhyun hastily waves his hands as if trying to brush away what he’s said. “Forget it.”

Chanyeol’s shoulders sag. “I wish I could.”

“Don’t.” Baekhyun tries to smile, to laugh. Then, meant to be a joke, but eliciting more tears than laughter: “There’s no stars in the sky here for you to wish on, after all.”

He's right: the air is clogged with clouds and pollution, washing the sky a uniform hazy, inky black. Darkness envelopes the city and its inhabitants.

“Then I won’t wish.” Something gleams in Chanyeol’s eyes as he sits up on the bed. Baekhyun swallows as candlelight ripples over his chest and arms. Chanyeol says, “I’ll work harder. I’ll put everything I have into finding this cure. Don’t worry. I won’t let you- let you-”

A long pause. Baekhyun tries to bring himself to continue painting, but his hands feel like they’re made of lead. Chanyeol watches him. It’s so quiet- not even sirens or car noises come from the city outside. The two of them are alone in the world. It feels like they’re alone _against_ the world.

“Why?” Baekhyun finally whispers.

Chanyeol stares at him, uncomprehending.

“Why are you so intent on saving me? I don’t- I mean, I’m in love with you, but you don’t love me back. You literally _can’t_. So why promise me this? Why take me as your patient? Why be so good to me?” To his horror, tears begin to well in Baekhyun’s eyes. Must be the exhaustion, the stress- shit, he’s going to _die_ soon, he deserves to cry a bit, doesn't he? 

“Baekhyun.” The gentleness in Chanyeol’s voice breaks Baekhyun’s heart several times over. “What else would I do? Let you die? No. I couldn’t. I would never- will never- allow that to happen. You’re not dying, Byun Baekhyun, not on my watch."

Outside, a freezing autumn wind howls and rips at the walls, threatening to topple the whole flimsy place. It surges in through the open window and tears through Baekhyun’s thin dress shirt. He shivers, then coughs and hacks petals into his bag. Yellow. Red.

"I may not be able to feel love, but that doesn’t mean I’m devoid of all emotion. I feel loss, Baek. I felt it after my surgery, when I lost my memories. I’d feel it if you died. I’m frustrated when you sound like you’d rather not be cured. I feel helpless watching you suffer." Chanyeol's voice rises and falls, his eyes luminous. "I feel the closest thing to love I am capable of when I see your paintings. They make me feel human, alive again." 

Baekhyun clenches his fists so hard he can feel his nails carving crescents into his palms. "But-" 

"Why, Baekhyun? Why am I doing this? Because I refuse to let this good spark go out. I refuse to let you die.”

A tidal wave surges in Baekhyun's chest, swelling and swelling. Crashing. He drops his paint palette and brushes, bringing his hands to his face as his shoulders begin to shake. "I- I don't want to die."

“You won’t. You won’t.” Chanyeol gets off the bed and comes to stand behind Baekhyun, rubbing his shoulders as he cries. 

He says nothing as Baekhyun stands up and turns to press himself against Chanyeol’s chest, just encircles his arms around Baekhyun and holds him close. 

* * *

When Baekhyun comes back to his sense, he steps back from Chanyeol. Wipes his eyes. “What if you don’t find the cure in time?”

“That won’t happen.” Chanyeol’s jaw is clenched, grim and determined. “I don’t break promises.”

He leaves sometime between three AM and sunrise. Baekhyun lets him go without touching him. 

By the time morning comes, the painting is finished: wrapped in brilliant cobalt, mustard yellow, and muted champagne, is the form and face of Baekhyun’s new muse.


	5. Part 5

****

**Part 5**

_I swam across,_

__

__

_I jumped to cross for you,_

* * *

Weeks fly by. Autumn begins to morph into winter. Baekhyun wakes up every morning surrounded by frost-covered daffodil petals- he really ought to get that heater fixed. He paints, without a fail. He tries to eat; tries to shrug it off when all his clothes get too big for his rapidly thinning frame. Calls his parents, breaks the news, wishes he was back home to wipe his mother's tears and tell his dad he understands his stoic silence. "It's alright, Dad, I'm doing okay, go take care of Mom, I'm sorry there's not enough money for me to fly home just yet." Twice a week, he goes for checkups at the hospital, which means he sees Chanyeol quite a lot. It’s nothing to complain about.

The checkups aren’t the only time they see one another, though. Baekhyun invites Chanyeol over any chance he can get, with all manner of excuses that both of them know are ridiculous, but neither question. Chanyeol’s been over to Baekhyun’s loft to fix his fridge, his sink, his window, his easels, his shelves. He’s been grocery shopping with Baekhyun, because what if Baekhyun 'suddenly passes out or something, shouldn’t he have his doctor there with him if that happens?' On the same excuse, Chanyeol and Baekhyun have gone to movies, art museums, restaurants, swimming pools, and even a pedigree dog show together (don’t ask about that last one- the two will exchange a knowing glance and then one of them will burst out laughing and that’ll start the other one and once they start Lord knows they can’t be stopped-).

Pretty soon, Chanyeol begins to feel like a permanent fixture in Baekhyun’s life. His number is the most-dialled one on Baekhyun's phone, the way he always rings the doorbell twice in rapid succession a familiar song; sometimes, he shows up on Baekhyun's doorstep without being texted or called at all, his facing lighting up in a big smile when Baekhyun rings him in, bewildered. "Surprise!" Chanyeol will say, holding movie tickets or a bag of takeout, and then they'll spend the rest of the day with each other. He's a friend, a companion- and so much more than that. 

Falling in love is like viewing a most exquisite painting. At first glance, you’re enchanted by the big picture. Then, as you get closer, you find that there is beauty and wonder to be unravelled in each and every minute detail. It’s the most wonderful thing in the world, Baekhyun thinks, to fall in love with the details. He’s certainly fallen deep for Chanyeol’s.

The way he stick his tongue out when he’s thinking hard; the different ways he laughs- the delighted laugh, the deep belly laugh, the uncontrollable tears-streaming-down-your-cheeks-smacking-yourself-and-everything-else-in-sight laugh. The way he looks, walking around Baekhyun’s loft brushing his teeth when Baekhyun asks him to stay the night. The goofy surprised expression on his face when he wakes up to the sight of Baekhyun making breakfast while wearing one of Chanyeol’s hoodies, slightly too big on his smaller body. How he is religiously a cereal before milk person, and acts like Baekhyun’s committed sacrilege when he pours milk first. How he’s the big spoon, and holds Baekhyun on the particularly cold nights until they both fall asleep. The starry, uncharacteristically bright, marvelous expression he gets in his eyes when he talks about something he’s passionate about, like saving people at his job, or Baekhyun’s art, or travelling, or putting cereal before milk. The way he looks cast in the soft flickering of candles, posing for Baekhyun to paint him in the early hours of morning.

Sometimes, they’ll just be doing something mundane, like picking out an ice cream flavour at the grocery store, and Baekhyun will catch a glimpse of Chanyeol in his periphery and suddenly feel like his heart is about to burst. It's ridiculous, how he’ll gaze over as Chanyeol debates between pistachio and mint chocolate chip, and suddenly be overcome by a wave of fondness so intense he stops breathing.

On rare occasions, Chanyeol catches him staring. "What's up?" 

_I love you._ "Oh, nothing." 

But Baekhyun’s absolute favourite moments are when he and Chanyeol are tangled up together in bed, just talking. He’ll rest his head on Chanyeol’s chest, Chanyeol’s arm curling around him protectively. Shimmering sheets of moonlight beam in through the window. Dust motes dance in the darkness of the room. Baekhyun traces invisible patterns onto Chanyeol’s chest and stomach, closing his eyes as he listens to Chanyeol talking. It’s the softest, most private kind of comfort, to listen to someone’s voice, feel the vibrations, and to know that you can listen to that voice forever because it belongs to you. To have _your_ person. 

To know- or at least believe- that you’ll have them forever.

Baekhyun collects these precious moments with Chanyeol like they are diamonds, stores them in his mind. Tries to keep them safe, because he knows, deep down, it won’t be like this forever.


	6. Part 6

****

**Part 6**

_I drew a line,_

__

__

_I drew a line for you,_

* * *

__

The fact of love is a weird thing. That’s what Baekhyun thinks about as Chanyeol is giving him what must be his millionth checkup. 

__

Love- it makes you see more of a person than what’s on the surface. 

__

There is loving the mystery, and then there is loving the solving of it. Baekhyun’s been unravelling the enigma of Chanyeol over these past weeks, slowly but surely. For instance, he now knows that Chanyeol’s favourite colour used to be yellow, but after the surgery, he didn’t have a favourite colour anymore. He knows that Chanyeol has an older sister, and a dog. He knows that, somewhat ironically, Chanyeol hates performing _hanahaki_ surgery, because he knows all too well what it’s like to be on the receiving end; to wake up with his heart torn out and his memories of the love of his life gone forever. 

__

He knows that Chanyeol never tried to find the person he fell in love with. When he asked why, Chanyeol had just shaken his head and looked away, twisting the silver ring around his pointer finger, a nervous habit of his.

__

“Do you want the good news first?” Chanyeol asks once he’s finished Baekhyun’s checkup.

__

“As always, doc.” Baekhyun’s a dessert-first type of person.

__

“Your vitals are all still working.”

__

“Splendid.” Baekhyun claps, overexaggerating his delight. 

__

Of course, it’s nice to know he’s not going to fall over and expire on the spot, that his body is fighting in some small way to keep him alive, but then again he’s not exactly, well, _alive,_ is he? All for the small victories, he guesses. Hooray.

__

“And now the bad news.” Chanyeol hesitates, a crack in the professional facade.

__

“Lay it on me,” groans Baekhyun, leaning back on the examination table in mock ease. He’s not ready to hear it at all, not really, would rather do just about anything in the world other than get bad news about his already rapidly deteriorating health. But for Chanyeol’s sake, he puts on a brave face.

__

“Your lungs are worsening at an unprecedented pace. The daffodil roots have grown through approximately eighty percent of your respiratory system.” Chanyeol bites his lip, not meeting Baekhyun’s eyes. “At this rate, my estimate is two months.”

__

_Oh._

__

Two months. 

__

“Oh.” Baekhyun says in a voice smaller than the eye of a needle. He fights to keep his face from crumpling. 

__

Two months. Two months to live. Two months to experience and do all the things he’s promised himself he’ll do before he dies. 

__

Two months to create his magnum opus, to make a real name for himself as an artist. To set up a fund with enough money to last his parents the rest of their lives. To have a family. To travel the world like he’s dreamed about since he was a kid. To go somewhere he can see the stars in person and not just in his head. To, _hell_ , to pay his fucking rent.

__

Suddenly, a cool hand settles on top of his. Baekhyun looks up, startled, into Chanyeol’s worried eyes. There are bags there, markedly darker than Baekhyun remembers from their first encounter that fated night at the exhibition. The past months have taken their toll on him.

__

“I’m doing all I can to find the cure,” Chanyeol speaks fast, with barely concealed distress, “But if I’m honest, Baek, I don’t know. I just don’t. The trial results take a long time to show, and-”

__

“Hey.” Gingerly, Baekhyun reaches forwards and puts a finger on Chanyeol’s lips, hushing him. “It’s okay.”

__

Closing his eyes, Chanyeol takes Baekhyun’s hand and presses it against his cheek. Baekhyun’s breath catches in his throat. 

__

It’s in moments like these when he could just forget that Chanyeol is unable to fall in love. For a sweet moment, he allows himself to hope against all hope, against all reason. Hope: soft cream, the colour of foam on lattes.

__

And then, it evaporates.

__

“I’m going to head over the lab right now.” When Chanyeol’s eyes snap open, he’s all business again. He mutters something about dependent variables and chemicals that Baekhyun can’t follow, and then turns on his heel.

__

Just then, a rush of nausea sweeps over Baekhyun. The ceiling lights begin to spin like a disco ball. “Wait, Chanyeol-” he’s broken off by a gag. Flower petals spew into his bag.

__

Chanyeol pauses, glancing back at him. “Are you alright?”

__

Baekhyun can feel his heart smashing like a jackhammer against his ribs. A sheen of sweat covers his forehead. A clump of daffodil petals clot the back of his throat, making his breathing laboured and heavy. Razor-sharp pain lacerates his entire chest area. He tries to smile. “Yeah, I’m fine.” 

__

He stands up, preparing to follow Chanyeol out the door.

__

And then, his knees are buckling and the ground is flying up to meet him.

__

“Baekhyun!” 

__

The sunset must’ve come early today, because world goes dark. The last thing Baekhyun is aware of is Chanyeol catching him before he hits the floor.

__


	7. Part 7

****

**Part 7**

_Oh what a thing to do._

__

__

_'Cause you were all yellow_

* * *

__

Baekhyun wakes up to the smell of smoke. 

He’s alone in a sparsely decorated hospital room with white walls, a white bed with white sheets, and one white bedside chair that is currently empty. It’s dark outside. Someone’s undressed him and put him in a hospital gown. Chanyeol? The memory of being caught in his arms comes back to Baekhyun then, and he blushes in spite of himself. 

A flash of colour on the bedside table catches his eye. A pale yellow sticky note. Baekhyun grabs it and instantly recognizes Chanyeol’s loopy handwriting.

_Went to the lab. Ask for me if you need anything -C_

Baekhyun crumples the note and holds it in his hand. A part of him wishes that Chanyeol had stayed to wait for him to wake up. He wants to see the concern on Chanyeol’s face, to know that he cares. 

_Stop it_ , he chastises himself. Chanyeol doesn’t have to do anything for him, owes Baekhyun nothing, least of all his time and attention. Baekhyun needs to stop being so attached, stop expecting a reciprocation of his feelings where there aren’t- _can’t_ be- any at all. He’ll just have to do with Chanyeol’s presence. Just being around him will have to be enough.

_It’s not enough_ , some small, selfish part of himself cries plaintively.

And though he tries damn hard to deny it, it’s right. He wants to be loved. He wants to be loved by Chanyeol. So badly it’s literally killing him.

But he never will be.

The urge to cough seizes him. He lets out a quiet whimper as pain rips through his chest, white-hot. There’s a plastic bag attached to the side of the bed, and he coughs into it. Yellow petals, and more blood than usual. 

And then: there it is again. The smell of smoke.

_Burnt umber_ , Baekhyun thinks to himself. Smoke’s always been brown. For a few minutes, he lies back, tasting the blood and flowers in his mouth, wondering if he’s suffered brain damage or something- isn’t it a thing where people report smelling burnt toast before keeling over and dying? A good five minutes later, however (he counts the seconds as they tick by on the white clock hanging above the door- it’s become a habit of his ever since he found out that his are now numbered), Baekhyun’s convinced that it’s not just burnt toast he’s smelling.

Though his arms feel like they’re made out of jelly, he gropes along the side of his bed until he finds a button than tilts the bed up so that he’s in sitting position. Once sitting, he can see outside the window. Through it is a view of the hospital parking lot, and on the other side of it, the medical laboratory that, if his note is telling the truth, Chanyeol is currently in.

Baekhyun blinks. 

Once. Twice. His breathing slows.

The lab. 

It’s on fire.

A thick column of opaque black smoke covers the building, swirling up endless into the cloudless night sky. Flames have devoured the base of the building already, and are making their way up swiftly. Rippling fire blazes from the windows. Suddenly, one of the windows breaks; a charred black figure bursts through it, and plummets to the ground floors below.

"Oh, _God_ ," Baekhyun gasps. He cranes his neck to look down at the ground, but he's too far away from the window to see. There's sickening surety in him, though; there's no way anyone would've survived that fall.

Baekhyun can feel the heat all the way where he is sitting. As he watches, in shock, the fire quickly engulfs the entire building. From the broken window, more fire barrages, terrifyingly huge waves that devour the laboratory walls like they are nothing. It seems almost surreal.

_Chanyeol._

His gut lurches. Something shifts inside of him, and the shock gives way to cold, pure terror. He moves fast. Wrenches off tubes and clips attached to him, ignoring the frantic blaring and beeping of the hospital machines. 

What floor did Chanyeol say his lab was on? Twelve? Thirteen?

_Bang!_ The door slams closed behind Baekhyun. With every step he takes, it feels like his ribs are puncturing his lungs, but he runs. 

As more people notice the fire across the parking lot, nurses and doctors and patients alike stop in the hallways to gape at it. Baekhyun pushes past all of them. Hospital walls, floor, staff, patients- they all blur into one nauseating mass of colour. He can’t think. All he knows is that he has to find Chanyeol. Because if Chanyeol is in the fire, if Chanyeol- if he-

Baekhyun can’t even finish that thought. It’s not an option. 

Chanyeol is not allowed to die. Not before Baekhyun. 

What a sick twist of fate that would be.

* * *

Brown cloys the air, blindingly thick. The heat’s worse in the parking lot. Smoke billows everywhere; the sky is drowning in it. Firefighters have arrived on scene, the wailing of their sirens turning Baekhyun’s vision bright green. A thin crowd gathers a few yards away from the flames, shadowy figures watching the carnage with open mouths and glazed eyes. Baekhyun searches their faces, but none of them belong to the man he loves.

“Move.” 

He’s too quiet; nobody hears. “Move!” He jostles people in the crowd to get past them. Petals scatter behind him. 

And then the fire is right before him. Roaring. Ravenous. Enormous. 

Baekhyun fights for air. His blood is frozen despite the oppressive heat. In that moment, he’s certain of nothing except that he would be reduced to nothing if he stepped inside the inferno.

A firefighter looms into view, arms crossed. “Sir, do not advance any further.”

Baekhyun shakes his head, head pounding and lungs contracting. “Let me through. My-my-” His what? What does he call Chanyeol? “My doctor is in that building.”

“We’ve evacuated everyone we can. Step back for your own safety.” 

Like hell he’s going to do that. 

Baekhyun lunges forwards without warning, making for the burning building. He’s not thinking straight anymore, and he knows it, and he- he just can’t. He can’t. He can’t. He has to find Chanyeol. He has to make sure Chanyeol is okay. 

But he’s too slow, too weak. The firefighter puts out a hand and it catches him square in the chest. Baekhyun flies backwards. Lands ungracefully on the asphalt. Nausea and pain roll over him like a bulldozer. He turns over and throws up. The yellow of the petals isn't even visible anymore, they’re so drenched in blood. His vision goes completely black for three seconds, and then wavers back into focus as he blinks furiously.

Shaking, he gets back up. 

“Let me pass, please.” He hates this, the sound of his voice, how it gives away that he’s on the brink of a breakdown. “Please, I need to find someone.” It hurts to talk. Razors slicing his throat into ribbons. He tries to run forwards again.

A pair of arms encircle him. The firefighter’s trying to hold him back again. _Let me go!_ Angry tears escape against his will, wet and hot, but not as hot as the heat sweltering from the burning building. He can’t think about it, Chanyeol being in that building, Chanyeol being swallowed by those flames, Chanyeol crying out for help but nobody hearing him, he can’t think about that, he can’t, he can’t- “Fuck you!” he yells at nobody, at everybody. Why won’t someone help him? All these people and nobody moves to help him. He turns around to stare through blurry eyes at the crowd; they stare back expressionlessly, motionlessly. _Fuck all of you_. Baekhyun thrashes against the firefighter’s grip, hating himself for being so weak. So fucking useless. A tidal wave of fear and helplessness, nameless and faceless, surges up in him. The fire seems to dance in slow motion, taunting. Black, bottomless dread tears a chasm in his chest. 

_Chanyeol. Chanyeol._

He doesn’t realize he’s screaming his name aloud until a low, familiar voice says back:

“I’m here.”

Baekhyun’s whole body goes slack. The arms around him loosen. He looks down, afraid to believe for even a second that...

It's not the firefighter holding him back, it's Chanyeol.

Time stops. Shards of the universe fly back together. An ocean of tears, relief and disbelief and crushing realization, well up in Baekhyun’s eyes.

He turns around, and his eyes desperately drink. It’s him. Chanyeol’s face is blackened with soot, his brow furrowed in worry, and his eyes are hidden in shadow, but it’s _Chanyeol_ , it is, it’s him, and suddenly Baekhyun can’t contain himself and he’s leaning forward and still crying and kissing Chanyeol on the mouth.

Chanyeol stiffens against Baekhyun’s lips, startled. 

Then, his arms shift around Baekhyun, gathering him close, holding him tighter. Warm. Safe. He kisses Baekhyun back. His breath is ragged, coming in unsteady, irregular gasps.

“I’m here now. I’m here, Baek, I’m here, I’m here.”

Mind spinning, Baekhyun closes his eyes, screws them tight, as he leans his head against Chanyeol’s chest. Through his doctor’s scrubs and coat, Baekhyun can hear his heart beating. Thudding hard and fast. But, God, he's _safe_.

“I thought I’d lost you,” he cries. His tears are spilling in earnest now, bitter and tasting of ash. “Don’t ever do that again. Don’t leave me again. I love you. I love you.” 

Baekhyun doesn’t even know why he’s crying anymore; all he knows is that he can’t stop. An immense weariness like lead pours through his bones. Chanyeol holds him and holds him for God knows how long, and doesn’t let him go until the light from the raging fire goes out.

* * *

Many small eternities later, a fireman comes to tell them to go home. The fire’s burned out and taken the entire laboratory building with it. All onlookers are to leave the scene. Chanyeol thanks him. And then the fireman leaves and the two are left alone in the dark, still-smoky parking lot. 

The night is a smoky coarse deep red. Baekhyun feels something wet in his hair. He looks up through burning eyes and is alarmed to see Chanyeol crying. The light of the moon quivers in his big dark eyes. The expression he wears is a gaping wound, the look of someone whose last hope has been crushed. Crestfallen, bereaved, sorrowful- doesn’t even begin to describe it. Baekhyun's heart thumps in dread; he's never seen Chanyeol like this.

Stomach sinking, Baekhyun asks softly, “What is it?”

Chanyeol’s face contorts as he tries to compose himself. “The cure.”

_Oh._

The _hanahaki_ cure. It had been in the lab when it burned down. 

Baekhyun’s stomach drops to his feet. Fighting a swell of panic, he whispers, “So, now-”

Chanyeol looks like he’s just taken the weight of the world onto his shoulders. He takes a deep, shaky breath. “I’m so sorry, Baekhyun. I-”

“Don’t.” Baekhyun smiles weakly.

He knows it now. There’s no chance left for him. He’s done for. Two months. There’s nothing else to say. “Don’t be.”

“Fuck, Baekhyun,” Chanyeol breathes.

Silently, Baekhyun slips from Chanyeol’s embrace. As Chanyeol’s arms fall away, a blast of cold air suddenly hits Baekhyun. He shivers and sways on his feet. But he’s not going to fall, not again, not anymore. He’s not going to make Chanyeol carry him into the hospital. Staring at the tear tracks staining black liquid soot down Chanyeol’s cheeks, Baekhyun swears that he’s going to remove himself from Chanyeol’s life. He’s not going to cause the one he loves most any more pain. 

“Baek?”

He ignores the vulnerability in Chanyeol’s voice, the terrible trembling. Quietly: “Remember the one condition you agreed to when I said I’d be your patient?”

Chanyeol doesn’t respond. 

“You agreed to honour what I want to do. To let me live and die on my own terms.” Baekhyun’s voice cracks. He clenches his jaw, his fists. _Fuck._ “Let me do that now, Yeol.”

And Chanyeol must remembering agreeing to that condition, because he doesn’t say anything as he stares at Baekhyun. A million unreadable thoughts gleam in his eyes- his too-bright eyes, red and strained from crying. Then, right before his face crumples, he looks away.

There’s nothing left to say now, well and truly. 

Baekhyun walks back towards the hospital. Tears splash on the ground with every step. Another bout of coughing convulses him. The flowers that flutter down are fragrant, beautiful in their own arcane way. 

It seems most cruel, though, that a garden thrives in his lungs while the rest of him is burning.


	8. Part 8

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**Part 8**

_Oh what a thing to do,_

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_And it was all yellow._

* * *

Time ebbs miserably on without Chanyeol there. Baekhyun spends most of his time painting, the rest of it sitting on his bed with the blinds closed, listening to music through earbuds in the dark. He’s deleted _that_ song, though, deleted it a long time ago. All the things he used to like doing- watching movies, getting milkshakes at the retro diner, late night walks through the winding city streets, finding hole in the wall cafés- he’s either too weak to do now, or doesn’t want to because it reminds him of Chanyeol.

_Why’d you shut him out? You need him,_ his heart cries.

_Shut up,_ his brain replies, _if Chanyeol had his way, you wouldn’t even exist right now_. And this is true. Baekhyun reminds himself everyday that without his heart, he is nothing. Without love, he cannot- and will not allow himself to- exist.

But still, it hurts to go to sleep alone in a cold bed. To wake up, still lonely. He’s found himself reaching for phantom arms, hungering for a warmth that’s no longer there. He misses Chanyeol more than anything.

It’s exactly why he can never go back to him.


	9. Part 9

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**Part 9**

_Do you know,_

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_For you I'd bleed myself dry,yellow_

_For you I'd bleed myself dry._

* * *

The last warm day dawns sometime in mid-December. Winter’s late coming to Seoul this year, autumn refusing to leave without one last dazzling red-orange-gold day. The leaves of the maple tree outside Baekhyun’s loft have almost all been swept away by windstorms, but the ones that remain dapple a pattern of light on Baekhyun’s face as he wakes up.

The garbage can isn’t big enough to hold all the petals he coughs up during the day, and he’s too weak to walk downstairs to empty it, so he throws them out the window. Their yellow-red colour blends right in with the blanket of dead leaves on the ground.

He hasn’t seen Chanyeol since the day of the fire. It’s been exactly four weeks, three days, and- Baekhyun glances at his alarm clock- nine hours. Every morning since leaving the hospital as been the same: wake up, cough up a billion flowers, try to eat something, and then work. He’s still painting. There’s less than a month now. His parents’ retirement could still use some bulking up, though over the past four weeks he’s sold most of his pieces and that should keep them comfortable for a while.

Chanyeol still hasn’t come to pick up the Seoul skyline painting. Just as well. Baekhyun doesn’t think he could handle seeing him now.

The piece he’s working on now is, ironically and more than a little sadly, inspired by Chanyeol. Even now, Baekhyun’s muse. More specifically, it’s inspired by the first magical night they spent together. That one suspended moment of paradise in the retro diner, before everything went to shit.

It’s a landscape of a diner isolated in miles and miles of starry space. In a state of decay, nature is reclaiming the abandoned old diner, a garden of splendid, vibrant flowers blooming from it. Upon a closer look, the walls of the diner are not typical brick, but bleach-white bones. The background is at once dark and infinitely vivid, the colour you see when you close your eyes.

 _Your skin and bones / turn into something beautiful_. Coldplay lyrics, lyrics that Baekhyun cannot disassociate from Chanyeol. How hauntingly fitting they are now. 

He only stops counting the seconds when he’s painting. Oil colour marries canvas. His whole body throbs at the slightest movement, but he is determined to keep making art until the very end. It’s sad, though: the only love that hasn’t left him empty still leaves him aching.

A few minutes before noon, his phone rings. The noise is shrill, fuschia, unfamiliar now- hardly anyone calls him these days, because it’s too depressing for them to have to listen to him coughing and struggling to breathe. Slipping his paintbrush into his other hand, Baekhyun picks up.

“Hello? Is this Mr. Byun?” A woman’s voice. “This is the Seoul National University Hospital.”

“Speaking,” he replies warily.

“You’re booked for a checkup meeting today with Doctor Park.”

“I never booked anything with him.”

“He says he would like to discuss surgery options with you.”

Baekhyun hangs up.

A few minutes later, the phone rings again. The same wretched number. Baekhyun ignores it. It goes to voicemail, and then Chanyeol’s voice is filling the loft.

“Baekhyun, pick up the phone. We need to talk.”

No please’s or thank you’s, no pretenses or politeness. Who does Chanyeol think he is? Baekhyun’s face flushes. He coughs up a lungful of petals before dialling the hospital back.

Chanyeol answers immediately. “Come to my office. Or, if you can’t, I’ll come to your loft.”

Trying not to show how taken aback he is, Baekhyun replies as if they haven’t been ignoring each other for a month. “Aren’t you too busy to leave?”

“Yes, but that’s irrelevant.”

“People need their green thumb surgeon.”

“People can wait.”

“So can I. I’ve got a good month, or have you forgotten?” The edge is coming back in his voice. It’s ugly, but Baekhyun doesn’t try to stop it. He’s got nothing left going for him, why not fuck things up with Chanyeol, too, once and for all?

“No, Baekhyun, I haven’t forgotten, and that’s why I would like to see you for a checkup.”

“What’s the point? I’m not going through with surgery. Why don’t you just let me die?” It doesn’t sound affirmative enough as a question, so he says, more aggressively: “Just let me die. It won’t make much of a difference to you, anyways, whether I live or not. You don’t care. You don’t know me. You don’t love me.”

An arduous pause. It’s only punctuated by the sound of Baekhyun wheezing as his lungs rebel against him. 

“How can you say that?” Chanyeol’s voice is quiet when he finally speaks.

Remorse colours Baekhyun’s cheeks. But no, he has to remain on the offensive. It’s this, or fall in love with Chanyeol all over again. 

“Leave me alone, Park Chanyeol. You have to right to be asking me to do anything. Don’t call me. Don’t look for me. Don’t assume that I want to live. You’ve cursed me. You’re the reason I’m dying.” He pauses for a split second to suck in a much-needed breath, knowing that he’s going too far- but like a broken dam, once started, he can’t be stopped. 

“Admit it, Chanyeol, just say it to my face: the only reason you give a shit about my life is because I wouldn’t be dying if it weren’t for you, and you feel guilty. It’s your goddamn fault. It’s all your goddamn fault! I had everything going for me, you bastard, everything. My career, my family, my life, I waded through so much shit to get where I was and I was finally starting to _live_. And then you came along and took it all away. The universe must be laughing at what a dumbass I am, really, falling for the one person in literally a million who can’t love me back. What a fucking joke.” He barks a laugh, a black sound. “You stole more than my heart, you stole my life. Every second you exist is one second I get closer to dying. You took _everything_ from me. 

"So at least leave this one thing for me. Leave me this final choice. Let me die.”

Panting, Baekhyun slams the phone down. He doesn’t want to wait for Chanyeol’s answer. Just hearing his voice felt like being stabbed a thousand times over. 

He can’t do this anymore. 

His paintbrushes and palette clatter to the ground. The painting is next. _Skin and Bones_ crashes to the ground as Baekhyun gives his easel a livid shove. The old easel, bought cheap at a flea market by the starving artist Baekhyun once was (and is once again now), breaks upon impact. Metal hinges shoot across the floor and wooden slats crack. The painting lands facedown, the still-wet paint smearing. Ruined.

Baekhyun cusses, but there’s no heart behind it. He doesn’t care that the painting is wrecked. Nothing matters anymore. He doesn’t care, he doesn’t care, he doesn’t care. His mind goes blank. He sees red. 

One sweep of his arm sends the dishes sitting on his counter soaring. They shatter on the ground with deafening sound. Splinters of china embed themselves into Baekhyun’s shins; he doesn’t flinch. He pulls the glass lamp from his bedside table, raises it above his head, and smashes it towards the wall. There it shatters. Shards stick into the wall, fall onto the floor. Glittering disks of snow. But still it’s not enough. Baekhyun goes over to the shelf where he keeps all his works in progress, pulls out the three canvases there; they’re all unfinished portraits of Chanyeol. Breath rattling, he grabs a kitchen knife, and slashes them. Then he does the same to _Skin and Bones_. It hurts like he’s cutting into himself, but he keeps going until only wood frames and painted rags are left.

Hours of work, gone in seconds. 

It feels good to destroy them. 

It feels like he’s doing to his art what life’s done to him.

Slumping onto his knees, Baekhyun surveys the havoc he’s wreaked. Then, gasping for air, he stumbles to the open window and grips the ledge.

Four apartment stories below, a strip of leaf-littered lawn edges a shining road. It must’ve rained last night. The air is imbued with the rich, earthy smell of petrichor. Raindrops not yet evaporated quiver on the window and outside ledge. Baekhyun looks down, sees the cars streaking past on the road, and thinks about jumping. 

A cold breeze sweeps in, ruffling his hair and making his eyes water. A droplet of rain slides down the window and drips onto the ledge. The ground is so far away.

 _No._

No. Not like this.

He forces himself to step away from the window, leaning against the wall for support until he makes his way to his bed and sits down on it. He wouldn’t do that to his parents. They’re coming to Seoul to spend his last days with him, he can’t deprive them of that. He wouldn’t do that to Jongdae. He wouldn’t do that to- to Chanyeol.

Suddenly, Baekhyun feels exceedingly, extremely small. Gathering his knees to his chest, he sits huddled on his bed, staring at the wall. An tiny eternity passes. The window flashes before his eyes, then the hospital, then he sees Chanyeol in his mind’s eye. Chanyeol, wearing that dark grey peacoat; smiling that smile that fills Baekhyun with warmth, that smile that’s so rare these days; reaching his hand out to Baekhyun. They’re back in the retro diner. Coldplay leaks wistfully from the jukebox.

Baekhyun remembers feeling alive, truly _alive_ , and that’s when he realizes he doesn’t want to die.

Gulping for air, he reaches below the bed and grabs something from the floor. His vision swirls. 

His phone. Dials the hospital, then hesitates. Deletes it. Dials Chanyeol’s personal number. 

He pauses in the middle as a clot of flower petals works its way up his esophagus; they’ve been getting bigger and bigger, as if trying to rub it in Baekhyun’s face that their roots are taking over his body. Jagged pain slices his chest when he coughs. The petals that fill his mouth are completely soaked in blood.

As he waits for his call to go through, Baekhyun’s vision disappears for the last time.

_Ring._

Everything goes black. His head spins. A boulder falls onto his chest and neck, crushing his windpipe. He lets out a weak whimper, scrunching his unseeing eyes tight. Trying to block out how excruciating it is. Trying to ignore how terrified he is.

_Ring._

God, what if Chanyeol doesn’t pick up? 

Sick to his stomach, Baekhyun lies down in his side, curling up into fetal position. A million knives stab his torso. Shooting, tearing agony. Searing. Deadly. There aren’t even any colours to describe the pain: he can’t see or think anything. The perfume of flowers and blood overflows, spilling over the edge of his bed, flooding the tiny loft, gushing out the open window. 

_Ring._

Against his will, Baekhyun’s fingers let go of his phone. It falls onto the floor with a clatter. He wills his muscles to move, _move_ , pick up the phone, but they don’t listen. Nothing is listening. A lump of bloody petals forces its way up his throat, but he can’t cough it out. He chokes, writhing feebly. His body bursts into flame. And then he is still.

_Ring-_

“Baekhyun.” 

Chanyeol’s voice comes crackling through the phone. 

Too little, too late.


	10. Part 10

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**Part 10**

_Your skin,_

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_Oh yeah your skin and bones,_

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_Turn into something beautiful_

* * *

Baekhyun’s flying. Miles and miles from his own body, he’s blind and hurtling up into the stars. 

Finally, finally, home: the stars.


	11. Part 11

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**Part 11**

* * *

_I don’t break promises._

Chanyeol can barely see straight as the ambulance does its best to speed through the streets of Seoul. He clenches his fists so tight crescent nail marks are carved into his palm. When he speaks, his voice is strained, so unlike the usually cool and collected Doctor Park. “Can’t we go any faster?”

“It’s rush hour,” the ambulance driver replies. 

The entire team of EMTs and paramedics exchange nervous glances. Doctor Park looks like he’s ready to murder someone.

Chanyeol rubs his face with both hands, clenching his jaw. He can’t lose it now. He has to keep it together, has to get to Baekhyun, has to save him, keep him alive. He made a promise.

When Baekhyun’s call went silent, Chanyeol instantly knew something was wrong. He pulled together the hospital’s best team of available ambulance staff and told his colleagues to get an operating room ready. He’s hoping it won’t come to that, but…

* * *

_Bang!_

Baekhyun’s locked door gives out with one kick. Chanyeol’s the first one in the room. He blinks in shock. The place is _ruined_. Paint, canvas, glass everywhere. 

He snaps his gaze over to the bed. 

His heart leaps into his throat. Stops beating.

_Baekhyun._

Unconscious, blue-lipped, lying on his side on the bed, motionless. Gaunt, skeletal. He’s wasted away shockingly quickly since Chanyeol last saw him. A sea of bloody flower petals drowns him on the bed.

“Doctor,” somebody says. Their voice sounds like it’s coming from a faraway tunnel.

Chanyeol is frozen. Blood roars in his ears. 

He’s… scared. Terrified.

The ice breaks. “Quick.” Paramedics push past, jostling him out of the way. Grim, determined. They’re here to do their job. Chanyeol steps back, feeling lost. 

The head paramedic, a medical veteran named Junmyeon who Chanyeol would trust with his own life, goes in to take the pulse. An awful pause. His eyes shine as he looks up and locks gazes with the doctor. 

“He’s alive.”

* * *

Chanyeol doesn’t dare look at Baekhyun’s face. The light above the operating table is overbright, glaring.

“Doctor? Are you alright?”

_Get it together get it together get it together_. 

It’s just like any other operation; he’s done countless, devoid of emotion or hesitation. His hands are the steadiest in all of South Korea. When it comes to _hanahaki_ , he might be the best surgeon in the entire world.

But those hands are trembling now.

He stares at them, uncomprehending, aghast. 

Standing at his elbow, his assistant says, “Doctor Park, if you can’t carry out the surgery, we’ll get someone else in. But we have to be fast. We’re losing him.”

_Fuck_.

He curls his fingers in, holds them in tights fists. Closes his eyes. When he releases everything again, his hands stop shaking. He takes the scalpel that his assistant is offering to him. Before making the first cut, he makes eye contact with every doctor gathered around the surgery table: his team. 

“We are going to save this man.”

They nod, apprehensive but understanding; they’ve seen this man before, entering Doctor Park’s office; they’ve heard snippets of their conversations, sometimes full of laughter and sometimes seriousness, floating through the thin hospital walls. They know this man is more than just a patient.

Chanyeol takes a breath, and grips the scalpel with white knuckles.

_I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry._


	12. Part 12

****

**Part 12**

_Look how they shine for you,_

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_Look how they shine for you,_

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_Look how they shine for,_

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_Look how they shine for you,_

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_Look how they shine for you,_

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_Look how they shine._

* * *

_Eight Months Later_

Flowers. 

Frothy purple larkspur, sweet white gardenia, midnight blue roses, sunny yellow daffodils. Bouquets, meadows, single stems. They’re all Baekhyun paints these days.

Months ago, he’d woken up in the hospital with an aching emptiness in his chest and a fractured memory of the past year. Nurses with soft voices and gentle hands had told him that he was a _hanahaki_ survivor, that he’d nearly died but had been saved, that he would no longer remember who it was that he’d loved, and that he would never feel love ever again. 

He believed them, knew what they said to be true from the bottom of his marble heart.

What was it like to love? Byun Baekhyun would not be able to tell you. Once, maybe. But certainly not now. And not ever again.

It is the night before his last ever art exhibition. Since the surgery that saved his life, Baekhyun’s works have not been as poignant, provocative, startlingly beautiful and _alive_ as they’d been before. The Seoul art scene sighed to see the figurative death of yet another young prodigy, nothing more than a bygone now. 

Baekhyun’s not making enough money anymore. His landlord will give him his last tongue-lashing today, and then never have to worry about that stupid starving artist cheating his rent ever again. Because Baekhyun is disappearing after this exhibition. Moving back to the seaside to be with his parents. The quiet coastal life has never suited him, not even back when he was a little boy tracing pictures in the sand; he craves mystery and thrill, wonder and novelty, grittiness and sorrow that only a city can give him. The ocean of his childhood has only ever been black. His soul belongs in Seoul. 

And yet, this is his last night here. 

That’s why the exhibition walls are such a mess. There’s no clear theme for this gallery, it’s an unfiltered, disorganized amalgamation of the last of Baekhyun’s works. A clearance sale. The discount rack.

He wants to weep, hanging up his flowers among portraits and landscapes of oceans and urban skylines. What a graceless way to go out. Whatever he can’t sell tonight, he’s going to have to trash. Slash and throw away, just like the paintings he ruined the day he should’ve died. 

It still haunts him at night, the fragments of face he could just barely make out of the canvas rags when he returned home from the hospital. He’d gathered them in his arms, rubbing his thumb against an acrylic swell of a lip here, a glossy lacquered brown eye there. Feeling the awful, awful emptiness, the regret. 

But he hadn’t cried, though he tried to. He hasn’t physically been able to cry since the surgery.

* * *

Jongdae is the first to arrive in the gallery. His face is a mixture of remorse, pity, and fondness. “I can’t believe this is the last exhibition of yours I’ll ever see,” he says, squeezing Baekhyun in a rib-crushing hug.

“I’ll come visit,” Baekhyun lies, patting Jongdae’s back robotically. His voice sounds insincere, even to himself, and he winces. He and Jongdae have drifted apart, badly. Jongdae just doesn’t get it- _what do you mean, you can’t love anymore? That’s ridiculous!_ \- but then again, nobody gets it. It’s part of why Baekhyun is leaving Seoul, why he can never come back. There’s no one here for him anymore. Only loss, and loss, and loss, on every street and in every sidewalk crevice. And unfortunately, loss is an emotion Baekhyun _is_ still capable of feeling. Coming back would only make it worse.

There’s just one thing Baekhyun wants to figure out before he leaves for good. A mystery, the biggest and most complex enigma he’s ever encountered in his life.

Who did he fall in love with?

His memories fail him completely; the only hints Baekhyun has are from his wrecked paintings. He knows he’s looking for a man, brown-eyed, brown-haired. In some portraits he wears a dark grey peacoat; in others, nothing at all.

Baekhyun must’ve loved him very much, to have painted his passion so fearlessly, so acutely.

* * *

People trickle in slowly at first, then come pouring in in swarms until the gallery is packed. Everyone wants to see the final firework show, the spectacular supernova of the inscrutable and heartbreaking Byun Baekhyun. They’ve come to look at his art, yes, but it’s a barely concealed sentiment that most are here to ogle at the shadow of a man. 

_He could’ve been great. He was almost great._

_He was almost many things._

It’s the _what if's_ rolling off the masses of people like waves that drives Baekhyun out of the gallery and onto the empty balcony. Dozens of stares ricochet around his brain; he’s a caged animal, a subject of study, pity, ridicule. The air inside is hot and heavy with other people's judgement. Involuntarily, Baekhyun leans over the balcony railing and vomits a sour stream of bile into the darkness below.

The flowers in his lungs are gone- so why does he still feel like he’s suffocating?

Just then, another pair of hands alight on the balcony railing. Silver glints; an engraved ring shines on the pointer finger of the newcomer.

Baekhyun wipes his mouth hastily, doesn’t meet the newcomer’s eyes when he says, “Can you give me a moment?”

But then that silver ring is flashing and the stranger is reaching towards Baekhyun’s face, tilting his chin up with a finger so they’re eye to eye. It’s black as spilled ink out tonight, but this city that never sleeps has its own electrical starlight to illuminate the stranger’s features. The tousled brown hair, wide brown eyes, pillowy lips. A face with all the colours of autumn.

Once upon a time, Baekhyun’s heart would’ve skipped a beat.

Now, he’s not sure it ever beats at all.

He steps back, into the shadows, slipping from the stranger’s touch. A whiff of champagne lingers in his nose. He narrows his eyes. “I’m sorry, have we met?”

“No.” Cobalt blue voice. The stranger doesn’t offer his hand or a name. He doesn’t blink as he looks at Baekhyun, but his eyes fill with some sort of indecipherable emotion.

“Well.” Baekhyun tenses under the scrutiny, a shiver itching to crawl up his spine. “I’m Baekhyun.”

“I know. I’m here to buy a painting.”

They walk together, Baekhyun and the (handsome, impossibly handsome, the type of handsome that Baekhyun once would’ve been enchanted by in a heartbeat) stranger, to a piece Baekhyun’s never given a name to. A massive Seoul skyline, encapsulated in an ever-greater sky full of stars. The biggest, most expensive, and oldest piece in the whole exhibition. 

“This one?” Baekhyun asks, tries a joking tone, “You sure you can carry it?”

The stranger laughs, a brittle and hollow yellow. “Yes, I’ve been eyeing it for ages.”

Baekhyun’s been saving this one for someone, he can’t remember who, but this is his last exhibition and the rightful owner hasn’t showed up to claim it, so he has no qualms taking this stranger’s cheque.

As the stranger passes the money over, Baekhyun catches another glimpse of the silver ring. His curiosity piqued, he asks, “What are the engravings of?”

Wordlessly, the stranger twists the ring off and gives it to Baekhyun to examine. 

Baekhyun squints, frowns. Flowers. They’re tiny flowers, carved hair-thin onto the band. He sees a rose, a bird of paradise, a carnation, orchid, peony, tulip, and-

His breath catches.

But it’s just a daffodil. Just a tiny little daffodil, smaller than the white part of his pinky nail. A splash of yellow throws itself against Baekhyun’s mind’s eye.

“Beautiful, aren’t they,” The stranger says. Not a question, a declaration.

“What do they mean?” Baekhyun murmurs, depositing the ring into the stranger’s waiting palm. 

“Some people tie ribbons around their fingers when they’re trying to remember something. Someone.” He slips the ring back on. “This is my ribbon.” 

And then, before Baekhyun can say anything else or begin to get lost in the chocolate of his brown eyes, the stranger is turning and walking away and melting into the crowd. Baekhyun stands, frozen, watching him go, feeling like he should be remembering something.

But he never is able to remember. This is the last great mystery Baekhyun will bury in Seoul, though he doesn’t know it yet. Already, he’s forgetting what the man’s face looked like.

Soon, it is like the stranger was never here at all.

* * *

_Look at the stars,_

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_Look how they shine for you,_

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_And all the things that you do._

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_And it was all yellow._

**The End**


End file.
